November

When I lived in Appleby in the 1940's November the 5 th was an important date. That was the date to remember that Guy Fawkes and his companions had tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London. November 5 th 1605. When we learned this particular piece of history in the village school, the teacher took great pleasure, almost morbid pleasure in telling the class that one of the companions of Guy was a man by the name of BATES, who came from Leicestershire. As my name was Bates, he would glare at me as if I, in someway, was actually responsible. He then told us with great relish how when they were caught they were all put on the ‘rack’ and afterwards they were ‘drawn and quartered’. I shall never forget the terror and nightmares I had, never daring to tell my Grandparents about the teacher’s story.

After school on Guy Fawkes Day we children would race around yelling “Remember, remember the 5 th of November” at the top of our lungs. This caused great upset for any cows being moved at this time of day - milking time. Women stood in their doorways shaking their fists and flapping their aprons in our direction. You see an upset, excited cow will usually loose control of its’ bodily functions. The lanes soon became both messy and smelly. But, once we all got started there was no stopping us. All during the week before November 5 th the older boys and girls had been going from door to door collecting rubbish. All this rubbish was gathered and carried to a nearby field just off Church Street where a huge bonfire was built. As dusk approached, a prepared straw effigy of Guy was set on top of the bonfire. Everyone assembled and the fire was lit. The leathery smell of damp leaves blended with the smell of burning wood, sparks flew in all directions. No one seemed to worry about sparks, as the surrounding grass was always wet from November rains. All of us faced towards the fire. Soon our fronts would be as hot as an ironing board and steam rose from our clothing and our Wellington boots. What a merry time it was, the excited voices of children combined with the gossiping of the adults. As the fire burned lower, older boys put potatoes into the embers for everyone. These potatoes had been begged from local farmers. Roasted potatoes never tasted so good as those crisp, burnt ones on a cold winter evening.The fire was nearly out when we younger children were hurried away by the teenagers. We followed our families home, dragging our feet in the long, wet grass. In the distance behind us, we could hear the giggles, squeals and laughter as the older boys chased the older girls towards hedges, haystacks and barns. We knew the evening was just beginning for them, but we really were never quite sure what it all meant.

On wet November days, the driveway would be very muddy. I would tie my shoe laces together and hang my shoes around my neck while I splashed my way down the drive in my Wellington boots. Grandma had instructed me to place my Wellington boots upside down on the sloping side of the ditch. At the end of the school day, it would be getting dark as I hopped from foot to foot changing back into my Wellington boots. The boots would be cold and damp, or ‘as cold and damp as a witches’ heart’, as my Uncle said.

Milking time in November meant the sheds were alight with efficient electric, not the soft lamp light we used in the house. The cow sheds had electricity and electric milking machines. Our living came partly from milk and Grandpa said we mustn’t forget that. Cows were important - the house wasn’t. The cow shed was a cozy place - warm and smelling of healthy manure and hay. Cows are very much creatures of habit, and their routines must be adhered to in order to ensure their co-operation. First, the loose hay was forked into their mangers. Then the cows were tied up, and the milking machines set ready. Milking was a soothing activity with the gentle rhythm of the machines. Afterwards I stood and watched my Uncle tip loads of steaming manure on the muck heap out behind the sheds. A small amount of milk not suitable for the dairies was poured down the chute into the pigs trough. It steamed and theygrunted their appreciation.

Beginning in late November and on into January, was pig killing time. Farmers at this time of year worried more about the health of their pigs than the health of the family. Pigs rarely fought against illness, they just lay down and died. Grandpa killed the pigs himself. He salted down the shoulders, sides and legs. These would last through much of the winter. Both my Grandparents got busy with the remainder of the pig, making fifteen or so pork pies, which lasted well in the cool winter weather as we placed them on the marble slab in the larder. Sausages, faggots and Grandpa’s famous crackling pig skins were also made. The lard from the rendered fat went into the pies and pastries that Grandma made all year round. The liver, kidney, heart and the sweetbreads all were used for a good ‘fry-up’. When the pig was killed, the blood from the throat was caught in a basin, then made into black pudding. ‘Brawn’ head cheese, was made from the pig’s feet and face, a few vegetables being added for colour. ‘Brawn’ looked very fancy on a plate. It has been often said we used everything from the pig, except the squeak!

In November, the normally gray shadows became even grayer; the wind around the barns was just a little bit colder. When the wind was growling in the farmhouse chimneys, and rain was driven by the north-east wind, I would wait until the very last minute to make my run to the brick lavatory in the front garden. We all ‘held on’ as long as we could bear on a cold winter evening. In the dead of winter, the wind whistled under the seats of the lavatory. In summer, this breeze had a welcome hygienic effect, but in those frosty days of November, a strong draft of polar air swept up from below and poured through the opening in the seat. When the temperature dropped well below freezing, the narrow cart and large tractor wheels barely marked the frozen ground. On one occasion I remember that the car skidded off the drive on the way down the driveway and then careered into the ditch. It had to be abandoned that evening, and Grandpa arrived at the house looking like a snowman. The next morning, there was far too much snow in Snarestone Lane for the Midland Red bus to make the trip, so I got to stay at home and watch the tractor attempt to pull the car out of the ditch. Both the Massey Ferguson tractor and the Fordson Major were needed to pull the car from its awkward position in the ditch. Finally after a whole morning’s work it was pulled back to the tractor shed.